


Fireside Chat

by larvae



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Book References, Dialogue Heavy, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Oneshot, Parental Crowley (Good Omens), Twee, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:34:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25652932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larvae/pseuds/larvae
Summary: And so, six years before the end of the world, Crowley took his woes to where he was used to taking them: To the garden shed.Specifically to Brother Francis, who occupied the garden shed most evenings. Most often in a form more suitable and familiar to the angel Aziraphale, with whom the demon Crowley was acquainted.Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis have a chat regarding their young ward.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth & Brother Francis (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth/Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	Fireside Chat

**Author's Note:**

> This is soft and twee and pointless but ach... they're so in love...

The demon Crowley -- and this he realized with an intense sense of unease -- had not been called that in quite some time. He’d been reporting in, of course, to the boys downstairs, but less often, now. In fact, it’d been ages. And Crowley, who had himself lived through ages, aeons, and epochs, did not use the term lightly.

It had been “Nanny” as of late. “Nanny Ashtoreth” from the masters of the house, who marveled at so devoted a caretaker for so meager a wage, and “Nama” from the little one placed in his care.

“Nama” because the little one had a tendency that bordered on a need to gnaw on his chubby bottom lip, and chose to do so when tasked with making consonant sounds that relied on other mechanics. “Nama” because it had very clearly been “mama” the first time he’d said it, and because Crowley had been quick to counter with “No, no, no, no, no, not mama. Absolutely not mama.” So then it had briefly been “not mama” before shortcuts were found and compromises were made.

It was not lost on Crowley that he had been dubbed “mamma” well before the other mother had been given a nickname.

Or, that is to say, the human mother. More accurately the only mother, human or otherwise. Crowley, he reminded himself firmly and often, was the boy’s nanny. Not even his nanny, but only the demon pretending to be his nanny. The demon who, in actuality, was the boy’s temptation into sin, placed at the very heart of the matter in order to sow the greatest discord. To foment, as it were. To guide the boy into the occult, demonic role he had been born into, despite the best attempts of the divine powers to ensure otherwise.

But the fact remained that the Anti-Christ child grew to call his one and only mother Harriet. Harri, when he was feeling charitable.

The fact also remained, try as he might to smite it, that somewhere between the feedings, the wet nappies, the late nights and early mornings, the runny noses, sticky fingers, and unsteady first steps, Crowley had grown somewhat fond of the boy.

The plain and simple truth of the matter was that watching young Warlock set a line of ants alight in the garden with a magnifying glass did not feel anything like being handed his umpteenth consecutive infernal employee of the month plaque. Instead it felt delightful. It was safe to say it delighted him.

This made his stomach churn.

And so, six years before the end of the world, Crowley took his woes to where he was used to taking them: To the garden shed.

Specifically to Brother Francis, who occupied the garden shed most evenings. Most often in a form more suitable and familiar to the angel Aziraphale, with whom the demon Crowley was acquainted. 

“Crowley!” he piped up as soon as the wooden door began to groan on its rusted hinges.

“Yes, hullo, Aziraphale,” said Crowley, shaking the soil and paint chips off of his black lace gloves. His voice still carried the softened affectations of his alter ego.

The angel Aziraphale stood and scurried over to take Crowley’s umbrella. As he did so, he cupped his right hand around his waist and pressed his lips softly to his cheek, taking some powder off with his nose and tickling him with his pale lashes.

“Hm,” said the demon Crowley.

“How fares the little one?” Aziraphale asked, tottering over to the fireplace. The garden shed was a modest stone structure not more than a meter wide, which made it all the more impressive that a full mantel flanked by elegant oak bookshelves could fit inside it. Not to mention the handsome emerald chaise lounge and gold riveted love seats that faced it.

“Oh, the Anti-Christ, d’you mean?” Crowley yawned, removing his dark glasses to rub his eyes, “the little Anti-Christ?”

“The very one,” said Aziraphale over his shoulder, lifting a kettle off the fire.

“Fussy,” said Crowley, peeling off his gloves and pulling the scarlet pussy-cat bow off his neck, “wouldn’t go to sleep until he’d heard me sing the pillars of flame verse twice.”

“Rascal,” Aziraphale chuckled.

“Hardly. If he’d really wanted it he could’ve thrown a proper tantrum. At least broken something,” said Crowley, stepping out of his heels and rolling his weight from the heel to the ball of his foot, one after the other.

“Did you make him?” asked Aziraphale, pouring two cups of tea. His tone was not sly, but were his face a cat it would have pled to eating the canary.

“Excuse me?”

“Just a question, dearest,” said the angel as he set out biscuits.

“What exactly are y-”

“No need to bristle, dear,” said Aziraphale, extending a hand to gesture toward the chaise lounge, “Only to point out that you sang it for him.”

“Yes,” said Crowley, collapsing where he was invited to and kicking up his feet, “I’m teaching him that petulant demands will get you anything if you’re shrill enough.”

Aziraphale handed Crowley his cup and saucer and sat in the love seat across from him, lifting his feet gently by the ankles before dropping them back into his lap.

“Do you know what I heard you taught the Anti-Christ, today?” said Crowley over the rim of his teacup.

“Hm?” said Aziraphale, rubbing his feet.

“I heard you taught him exactly when the kitchen staff change shifts,” said Crowley pointedly.

“Hmm…” said Aziraphale, moving his hand to cup Crowley’s calf.

Crowley pulled his waist belt loose and raised his eyebrows.

“Well,” Aziraphale said slowly, suddenly looking with rapt attention at the cobwebs in the far corner of the garden shed.

“Well,” said Crowley sternly.

“Well it’s important for a young man to be able to tell the time. Idle hands… devil’s whatnot,” Aziraphale decided, and then added quickly, “would you like to take these off, dear?”

“No,” said Crowley, flexing his foot to bat away Aziraphale’s hand where it pulled at his sheer black stocking, “but I would love to know how Warlock can tell the precise and only time that pudding is left unattended.”

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Aziraphale said pleasantly.

“No, you wouldn’t, would you,” Crowley grumbled.

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, “did you come down all this way to admonish me?”

The demon Crowley stewed for a moment.

“No,” he said finally.

“I thought not,” said Aziraphale, giving Crowley’s crossed ankles a gentle pat.

“He’s five, now,” said Crowley.

“As of last Wednesday,” Aziraphale agreed.

“In his sixth year,” said Crowley.

“Not so young anymore, our Warlock,” Aziraphale nodded.

“Not so far from ending the world,” said Crowley, unbuttoning his blouse down to the black lace trim of his chemise.

“Oh, but he won’t,” said Aziraphale confidently.

“What, because you’re going to stop him?” Crowley snorted, and handed Aziraphale his empty tea cup before reaching to undo the tightly pinned plaits of his coiffure.

“Well, that is rather the plan,” said Aziraphale, leaning to set the tea cup down on the edge of the refractory table piled high with yet unsorted, uncatalogued, and herto undiscovered manuscripts.

“Bugger the plan,” Crowley huffed. Aziraphale tutted and moved to sit beside him.

“Allow me,” he said -- said, not asked, Crowley noted -- before reaching up to shake his hair gently out of its plaits with patient fingers. Then, just as he was beginning to sink back into the velvet chaise lounge and close his eyes against the warm glow of the fire, “You’re worried for the boy.”

Crowley’s amber eyes snapped open with what may as well have been a clatter.

“I’m what?!” he seethed.

“Worried,” Aziraphale said again, “for the boy.”

“Worried for what, would you say, exactly? Worried he’ll fulfill exactly the destiny I brought him into the world to fulfill? Hm? Worried for fire? Brimstone? Eternal darkness and agony? Worried it’ll all go exactly according to plan? ”

“It won’t,” said Aziraphale calmly, combing his fingers through Crowley’s red hair from root to tip, “not according to your plan at least.”

“My side’s plan,” said Crowley testily.

“Not according to your side’s plan,” Aziraphale nodded, resting his free hand on Crowley’s knee.

“Not according to your lot’s either.”

“Well it’s all part of the plan.”

“The ineffable plan.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, and watched Crowley cross his arms.

“Well I’m certainly hoping it all goes according to our plan for all the work we’re putting into it.”

“You’re worried he won’t need you anymore.”

“Who?”

“Warlock.”

“The Anti-Christ?”

“The little one.”

“He’s not interested in a tricycle.”

“Pardon?” said Aziraphale, his half lidded eyes snapping open under his furrowing brows.

“Really thought he would be,” said Crowley,” scratching his chin, “he’s old enough by now. I’ve suggested it often enough.”

“You’ve suggested a --”

“Nevermind,” Crowley waved the thought away with a manicured hand.

“You’re worried he won’t need us anymore,” Aziraphale insisted, with his hand at the back of Crowley’s neck.

“Us?” Crowley scoffed, turning to face him, “Is there an age limit on gardners?”

“There’s an age limit to the interest little boys show in the wisdom of gardeners.”

“Nnnyes,” said Crowley, “at some point they’re bound to realize they’re moralistic old fuddy duddies.”

“No doubt at the same point they realize their nannies are caustic old shrews.”

Crowley hissed, but graciously allowed Aziraphale to stroke his hand softly under his chin.

“He’ll likely need a tutor,” Aziraphale suggested. Crowley mulled it over before brightening.

“A pair of them surely,” he said.

“I’d suspect so,” the angel smiled, and moved to brush Crowley’s hair forward over his shoulders, running his hands again through the waves.

“You look beautiful,” he said absently.

“Oh shut it.”


End file.
